


The Breach

by Tsyele



Series: Journey of the Inquisition [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dark Solas, Gen, Prologue, let's have a journey through the dark recesses of solas's mind, my life became a wreck after DA:I, pre-game, solas made me do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsyele/pseuds/Tsyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Solas found himself in the center of a cataclysm that threatened to undo the world, the only correct thing to do was to help fix the mess that had been put in motion. When his attempts to seal the rifts failed, a lone survivor from the explosion caught his attention. It seemed a Dalish elf held the key to their salvation.</p><p>Solas's perspective on the series of events that lead to the formation of the Inquisition. Story happens pre-game and during the prologue. Expect heavy spoilers due to all we know about Solas by the end of the game and a fair bit of headcanon, but I tried to be mostly canon-compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I finished Inquisition last year a hole was left in my heart by the bastard we all know as Solas. I have since then occupied my mind with drawing fanart, escalating into reading crazy DA theories, and further into reading fanfic but nothing would fix it, so I had to write about Solas and the incredible relationship he has with the Inquiz (esp. F!Lavellan) and the DA world.
> 
> This is not the first fanfic I wrote, oh boy, no... but it is the first I felt I needed to publish.
> 
> Just an aside: I read and write mostly in English now, but it remains my second language, so there are some idioms and vocabulary I'm not familiar with. I'd like it if you'd let me know if my writing seems too simple or if it's obvious I kept a thesaurus opened up in the next tab.

‘Solas,’ as he had called himself for the past few years – a name to remind him of his pride, both his virtue and his vice – leaned on his staff as he walked through stone and snow, the blisters on his hands and feet long replaced by callouses that roughened up once soft skin, now screaming from overuse. Never in all his years of living had he exerted himself physically in this manner, not after his sleep, and certainly not before. But he could not relent, not when he was so, so close.

He had been treading the rocky paths of the Frostbacks for hours, until a small village – if one can call a couple houses and an inn a village – came into his view. A little stop on the Pilgrim’s Road.

Solas checked his waterskin – nearly empty. His tired legs and aching feet could also use a rest, and as he thought more about it, his belly started rumbling, protesting its emptiness.

He decided to make a quick break on his journey.

He could still sense his magic, it was not too far. In fact his orb didn’t seem to have moved at all in the past few hours.

The elf considered concealing his staff. The recent war between the _shemlen_ mages and templars had made the common folk even more wary of magic than they were before, and very aware of the weapon of choice of its wielders.

_Mages and templars… The Conclave._ Solas looked at the tall mountain and he smirked. He had been following the trail of that wretched creature for the last couple of years, only catching scent of his magic again some weeks ago. Before he felt the familiar prickle of his orb’s energy on his skin, Solas had thought the twisted monster who called himself a magister of Tevinter gone with its power, a gut-wrenching notion that flooded the elf with fear that he’d made yet another mistake, a mistake that would effectively make him powerless to correct his other ones.

Why this Corypheus creature had come to the _shemlen_ Divine’s Conclave, he didn’t know, but it was the logical assessment.

He hid his staff behind a bush that bent over with the weight of snow and made his way to the inn. That he’d just been using it as a walking stick these past days didn’t matter. Even though this road had seen many mages passing through to Haven, he was just one man, and worse, he was an elf – a fact that he’d discovered was _not_ a privilege in this world.

Solas entered the dark and cozy tavern quietly, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, and settled in an empty corner table. The serving girl came to him, expertly balancing an assortment of mugs, bowls and plates with her hand, and he pulled back his hood. He felt the human woman’s eyes scanning him up and down, and when he looked up to her he saw her scrunching her nose.

“What can I get ya?” She placed her free hand on the table and cocked her head almost imperceptibly. “Elf,” she added.

Solas steeled his features before forcing a smile, and said, “I would like a mug of ale and the stew of the day.”

The woman had not moved from her spot. As she shifted her weight to lean on the table some more, her eyebrows raised.

_Typical._ The elf narrowed his eyes at the serving girl before reaching for his purse. He didn’t have much, the life of an apostate hermit is not a rich one, but he had enough for the occasional tavern meal.

His order was barely a few coppers, but today he was feeling cocky, so with a slight slam he placed a silver coin on the wooden surface and turned back to the human woman with a smug smirk on his lips.

“I hope this is sufficient for an _unwatered_ drink and a _hot_ bowl,” he said, punctuating the words in mockery.

She widened her eyes, slightly embarrassed. “O-of course. Uh, right away,” she said, slipping the coin into her apron pocket and turning to leave.

Oh, but he wasn’t going to let her leave this easy. When she was about to take her step he spoke again, dangling his waterskin between his thumb and middle finger, “I believe the change is enough to fill this.”

She turned around, her movements painfully slow and hunched, certainly trying to shake the fluster and annoyance on her features. For a _shem_ she wasn’t very quick. When she finally faced him, she took the skin from his hand and faked a smile before returning to the counter where she proceeded to talk to the barkeep and point at Solas.

So much for not drawing too much attention to himself.

He pulled his hood back up and his eyes scanned the room: two templars, a few sellswords, three men he assumed were mages, some commoners and even a dwarf. It wasn’t full, but this was probably the busiest it had been in a while.

The woman returned with his order. “Here ya’ go, straight from the keg and straight from the pot.”

Solas nodded as she left to tend to the other customers. After returning the waterskin to his pack, he took a bite of the first seasoned meal he had in weeks. The spice of pepper and prickling of marjoram and elfroot danced in his mouth. He washed the salty flavor with a sip of ale, the bitterness sweeping through his throat and replacing the taste on his tongue. He ate his stew in silence, savoring the warmth it brought to his body.

As he nursed his mug, Solas mused on Corypheus’s plan. Why Haven? Why now? The disfigured creature had chosen the Conclave for a reason. Was there some significance to this? He said he was from Tevinter, perhaps a blood magic ritual. Indeed, most definitely a blood magic ritual.

Solas leaned back against the wall, smiling to himself. The Conclave had gathered huge delegations not only from both factions of the war but also from the Chantry, whose Divine was trying to mediate the conflict that spread throughout the south and caught the common populace in the crossfire. There were not only hundreds, but perhaps over a thousand people coming to participate or observe the peace talks, now him included – though for completely different reasons. The deaths of all of these people would certainly power up the orb, though Solas couldn’t fathom how Corypheus would manage to keep them all together for whatever ritual he was going to do. Of course, he was only just thinking about it now, that twisted form of a man must've had this planned for far longer.

He had to hand it to Corypheus: if he practiced blood magic, Solas would probably do this too.

A bar brawl wrenched him from his thoughts. The dwarf had shot a man for harassing the serving girl with his interesting-looking crossbow. Although intrigued, Solas retreated further into the corner. Whatever this Corypheus was going to do, it would be soon, and the last thing the elf wanted was attention.

A stern, serious woman, with short dark hair and what seemed a shorter temper, shouted for the dwarf to stop and leave. Something about being late. Solas downed the last of his mug as the serving girl placed a kiss on the dwarf’s temple.

Then loud boom rang in his ears as the windows exploded inwardly. A whoosh blowed at his face and yanked down his hood. He shut his eyes at the impact, and when he opened them a familiar green tinged the room.

_Oh, no._

There was a knot in his stomach. A nervousness that gnawed at him. The tingling he felt on his skin was as familiar to him as the palm of his hand. The Veil caressed his face, and he could almost feel the Fade as if he were dream-walking. He found himself confused by the situation as a mere mortal would be confused with their limited understanding. Brow furrowing, he mimicked the other patrons as they looked out the windows, tentatively and afraid.

_It cannot be._

And there it was, a tear in the Veil so wide the nomenclature wouldn’t cut it. A hole swirled in the sky, sucking in the clouds to its depths while showering the land with green tendrils – spirits, Solas dreaded – the energy of it all igniting the latent electricity in the air. A dry storm washed across the atmosphere, spreading from the largest rift he’d ever seen, and lightning struck once, twice, several times in an unending flurry of blinding electric rays, thunder booming from the dark clouds that had formed after the sudden drop of temperature.

Solas looked at the tear, then past it. _The Fade._ Through the hole he could see it, the raw Fade, the dream-land unshaped by dreams, the naked body of the Beyond. The elf shuddered as the magic rushed through him. This was the work of his orb, _his magic._ But it was impossible. It had to be. The orb was dormant, locked. Unless… unless…

Unless it was already unlocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the restored memories during 'Here Lies the Abyss', conversations with Solas, his codex entry and the end-game stinger, I think it's obvious that he gave the orb for Corypheus to unlock, though how I don't know, but I'd guess he probably didn't show himself to him, so I kept it vague; it also seemed that he was tracking him, that's why he was nearby the Conclave, but I think he was waiting for him to unlock the orb and wasn't expecting it at all to be unlocked already and cause the Breach (see: his anger at Corypheus being able to use the orb).
> 
> Also, in the Varric promo video, you can see Solas and Cassandra in the tavern.


	2. Chapter 2

It was not supposed to happen this way.

A key sacrifice, a few necessary deaths he could abide, but this? A giant tear in the Veil, rifts popping up all over the land, innocents dying at the hands of demons – or worse, the corruption of spirits – this was chaos for chaos’ sake, no purpose, not part of his plan. And it was done with _his_ magic. Solas needed to correct this mistake, his mistake. This ‘Breach’ threatened the whole world, not only this one but the world he was trying so hard to restore.

So he assessed the risks, weighed his options, and decided to turn himself in to the only ones who were trying to fix the hole in the sky and offer his help. Solas didn’t even have to change his guise for the Chantry forces. He called himself an apostate and a Fade expert – he was – and surrendered his staff as a gesture of goodwill, which he was later returned. A red-headed woman, Sister Leliana as she was called, probed him with questions, looking for gaps in his story, but this was a dance he knew all the steps to, and if she wanted to dig for inconsistencies he was going to make her work for it – after all, it was in their best interests to have him with them: he was the only one with an inkling on how to stop this mess.

Vague answers, evasive responses, and a whole web of lies seasoned with a few sprinkling of truths. A concoction that tasted just right, or at least just right enough for one to not ask what was inside anymore. It was still a good spar, the red-headed woman was more cunning than most, a nice change of pace since his slumber, but the Dalish didn’t call him the Trickster for nothing – though that was never truly his purpose.

For now, he came to help however he could, but, as he soon found out, without his orb it was going to be a lot more complicated than he thought.

The day of the Breach he was allowed to study the smaller rifts, but not the explosion site itself. Leliana's people had already scoured the area, if they’d found the orb they told him nothing.

At first, he attempted to seal the rifts near the town of Haven, but had no success. Solas tried and failed and tried and failed. Instead of closing the tears, the magic he poured into them had attracted more demons. He was hounded by the short-haired woman he recognized from the side-stop village.

Later during the day, he heard her, the Seeker, and Leliana fretting over a prisoner and he was intrigued. A prisoner taken from the explosion site. Could he be Corypheus? Perhaps he knew the whereabouts of his orb. He inquired after this mysterious survivor, the sole person to escape the blast and emerge from the rift right at the center of it. Maybe fate would be kind and deliver both Corypheus and his orb to him. If only. The prisoner was a mere elven woman. However, she had a mark, a piece of magic swirling in her hand and extending tendrils of energy up her arm. And she was dying.

"You said you knew how to stop these rifts, Solas, but I have yet to see any progress!" Cassandra, the Seeker’s name was, shouted at him. "And now you want to see the prisoner? Demons are pouring everywhere, if they are not stopped, Haven will be overwhelmed!"

Solas kept his expression and tone deliberately neutral. "Seeker, these rifts were not made through any natural means, but by magic. Powerful magic I cannot yet match." _But when I'm returned my orb I will._

"Perhaps," he continued, "if I observed the survivor I could gather more insight that could help our cause." Cassandra raised a questioning yet unconvinced eyebrow. Solas sighed. "You said she had a mark, a source of magic in her hand. I may find some answers if I could determine the nature of that magic."

"Absolutely not." Cassandra crossed her arms. "You will keep working on the rifts, _apostate,_ and you will produce results. Your life depends on it."

"Cassandra," said Leliana, placing a hand on the Seeker’s shoulder. The bard had simply appeared from the shadows without a sound. Solas made a mental note of it, with equal parts approval and wariness, as she came to his defense, "the prisoner is dying and Adan said he's done all he can for her. She may be the only one who knows what happened at the temple, what happened to Justinia. If Solas can keep her alive long enough for her to wake up, isn’t it worth the risk?"

The Seeker groaned in disgust but ultimately relented and motioned for Leliana to take him to the holding cells in the Chantry.

As he made his way towards the prison he could feel the air crackling, tiny wisps of energy caressing his skin, power old and familiar and _his_. But when once it felt comforting and controlled, now it was a chaotic mess, raw and unchecked. It was coursing through the flesh of an innocent bystander. _My fault._

Solas shook the thoughts from his mind. If this woman had the key he couldn’t let his sentimentality take hold of his judgement. She was a simple mortal, holding in her flimsy grasp a part of his power. She was going to die. Another for his tally of collateral damage. What's one more to a list of millions?

The bard signaled for the guard at the door to unlock it. The elf could barely contain the lifting sensation in his chest, such was the overwhelming feeling of the old magic, lapping at him like a wave. It was like returning home.

Solas followed Leliana inside, where four more guards stood in attention. The room glowed eerily as rays of green light dispersed from behind the bars of a cell where a tiny woman leaned unconscious against the wall. As he neared her, the mark on her hand crackled and sparked, reacting to his presence, wanting to return to its owner. Its energy seared through the nerves of the elven woman and she screamed in pain, even in her unconscious state.

"Strange," the bard said, "she never had this strong a reaction before. She must be getting worse."

Solas reached out to the magic in an effort to calm it, and prayed that the red-headed human wouldn't connect the dots. The prisoner's mark subsided and her body slumped down, limp.

“Can you do something?” Leliana looked at him, worry in her expression.

“Healing magic can help where restoratives no longer can. I can also cast wards to stop the mark from spreading any further through her body. Perhaps attempt a dispelling, though I doubt that could be of any use. I cannot know for certain unless I examine her further.” Solas took a sidelong glance at the unconscious body of the elf. He wasn’t sure how he would be able to pull his magic out of her, and he couldn’t do it in the face of so many.

As he headed towards her, he took a gamble, “I would like some privacy.” He could feel the bard narrowing her eyes in suspicion, such was the intensity of her boring gaze. “It is hard to concentrate with so many eyes upon me. The mark may also react unexpectedly. I do not wish any more unnecessary deaths.”

The answer came a few moments later, “Very well.” Leliana nodded for a guard to open the cell door. Once unlocked she motioned for the men to leave. She was halfway through the door frame when she paused, turning to him, “You better hope she does not die on your watch. Cassandra will make good on her threat.” A warning in the form of concern.

“I will shout if there’s trouble,” he said, and then the door clicked shut.

Solas smiled to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: fixed some typos.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter includes a depiction of a rape/non-con situation.

The humming in his head begged him to come nearer. He crossed the cell’s threshold and crouched beside the slumbering elf, mark flaring at his closeness.

He took a moment to observe the unwitting vessel of his magic. How fatidic was it that an elf, a dainty modern elf, held in her grasp the magic of old.

Her head pressed on her chest, rising faintly up and down, following the motion of her shallow breaths.

Solas cupped her chin and turned her face to him. The long dark hair slid by her cheekbones. Eyeballs rolled behind closed lids, alternating sides in quick succession. Lips chapped and blood dried around the gash that crossed them. Her skin was smudged with soot and concealing make-up, an attempt to cover up the tattoos on her face. Vallaslin _._

He released her head at the sight of her blood-writing and watched as it slumped down to rest on her chest again.

Then, like a faint brush on his skin, he felt it. Her aura pulsed ever so gently, the slightest give-away of magical ability, dormant in her unconscious state.

He looked at her. She was young, her  _vallaslin_  couldn’t have but eight years at the most, so she had to be a First, no, probably a Second. No Dalish clan would send their First alone to meld with humans, would they?

The irony was not lost on him. A Keeper’s apprentice, killed in her sleep by the touch of Fen’Harel.  _The ultimate Dalish cautionary tale,_  he scoffed.

Still, he was very intrigued. His curiosity demanded to know what manner of Dalish mage would venture to the Conclave of  _shemlen_ faith.

Solas took the elf’s face in his hands once again and wiped away the grime, all the while licking his upper lip in anticipation. At the stroke of his thumbs, the carefully tattooed lines were revealed as if a dusty inscription after the swipe of a hand.

His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling it back for a clear look at her face.

Eyes darkened as Solas’s mind drifted to the times of Arlathan. In his presence was a pretty little elf, marked with the twisted lines of Falon’Din. Were she of his time, a pretty little thing like her would have her place as a comfort slave, and she would bow in service of Falon’Din in more ways than one. She would not be worthy to show her face to a god, and at her challenge Fen’Harel would toss her to the ground and she would fall on her elbows and knees. His hand would pull the beautiful dark hair tight and lock her head in place, facing away. His legs would slide hers open, his free hand would stroke her ass, parting her cheeks, and his teeth would bite down his lip at the sight. His thumb would test her entrance and she would beg with a whimper,  _“Please, please.”_  Then, being the benevolent god that he is, he would grant her her wish, settle his hand on her hip as he took her from behind and—

_No!_

Solas jerked back, back to the present, standing up in a flash and taking a step away from the unconscious woman in front of him. Shame burned on his cheeks, hotter than the pooling heat at his core. The same shame that fueled his ancient purpose.

Never in his years had he given in to his thoughts, the sick perversions that came from an existence where his station could demand it all. It had been his life’s work to fight this twisted nature, to rebel against the corruption of weak minds that drowned in power they should not have. To find that, after all this time, after all the sacrifices he’d made, his thoughts still drifted to the default… it bashed his pride down more than he could say.

He breathed in slowly, trying to center himself.

The woman at his feet… she couldn’t be a person, she couldn’t be a thing. That would make her real. Better he thought of her in the abstract: she was his way out. Solas looked at her hand. The magic flared of its own accord after his loss of control. He crouched again by the elf’s side, grabbing her wrist and facing her palm up. Her pulse beat rapidly, far quicker than it should.

On the corner of his eye he spotted her face, obscured by the cascading locks of ebony hair. He pushed her head, turning it away before focusing on her hand once more. For now, she could be nothing more but the mark.

Solas’s fingers hovered over the wound of festering green magic and drew his mana, pulling and pushing, pushing and pulling, until he coaxed the magic into a gentle, tidal rhythm.

With each succession, the mark shone brighter as he pulled, its energy reaching out to the surface.

He noticed her body bobbing to the rhythm and the undulation of his mana elicited a moan from her lips. He attempted to ignore it.

There could be nothing more but the mark.

He pressed on, increasing the rhythm until the magic was ready to burst. The tension reached a peak, and Solas could no longer add more to it.

It was then that he pulled his mana with all the force he could muster, trying to break free the magic that was interwoven into the very fabric of her being.

The mark flashed, blinding him, and the room became awash in the unnatural green of its energy. The woman cried in pain, her back arching and limbs thrashing. Still, she didn’t wake up. Solas strained to hold the connection as the elf writhed, and a sheen of sweat started forming on his brow.

It was hard to focus. The pain he was inflicting her was causing him anguish in return, and at the sound of her screams, he could feel the guards stirring outside.

Solas steeled himself. He was so close.

One more pull and the woman’s movements subsided when her pulse stopped. But something was wrong. The mark flickered frailly and the room was no longer alight. The magic was dying out as she took her last breaths.

_No. No, no, no, no, no._

The door burst open as Solas frantically tried to bring the elf back to life. With all that was left of his mana, he poured magic into her, seeping it through her flesh in a desperate attempt to heal what he’d done.

“What’s happened?” Leliana had rushed through the jail room, shouting in alarm.

Solas ignored her, he couldn’t let the mark die out.

The moment his power was almost completely sapped, he felt the faint beat of the elf’s heart and the mark flared back to life. Her chest heaved from the pull of a breath, and she coughed ever so slightly. Solas checked her pulse. Slow, but steady. He nearly collapsed with exhaustion.

The bard’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. “Solas, what’s happened?”

“Report, Sister Nightingale,” a runner came in, interrupting, panting from his exertion.

“Speak.”

“Lady Cassandra says the rifts began acting strangely, like… like they were coming alive. The rift just outside Haven grew bigger then snapped back, but lots of demons came through.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just now.”

“Thank you. Dismissed.” Leliana turned back to him, pondering, “When did she start?”

He could hardly breathe. “Just before you entered,” he said, punctuating the words with strained inhalations, then paused. Solas couldn’t have let the survivor die, even if for a few moments, and return empty handed. He had to give the bard something, so he told her the truth, “It seems that the magic that caused the Breach also placed the mark upon her hand. Both are connected, and I believe that if the mark is brought under control, it can be used to control the tears that have formed in the Veil.”

“Can we use it?”

“Unfortunately, it cannot be wielded by outside sources.”

“So…”

“She must be the one to seal the rifts, yes.”

“And if she dies?”

“If she dies…”  _The magic of the orb will be lost, and with it, the world._ “Then what little control the mark has on the Breach will be gone.”

“Then we  _must_ keep her alive,” Leliana said. She turned to the guards, “Fetch a lyrium potion. And you…”

“Fletcher, ma’am.”

“Stay here with him. Watch them, assist in any way you can.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the soldier saluted.

“Solas…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she said, and left the cell room.

A few moments later, a runner came by with a small box with three small lyrium vials. It ate at Solas that he was now reduced to this, to needing help restoring his power when once he so easily cast so much more complicated spells without expending a breath.

After a few minutes to recover, he finally begun what he’d told Leliana he would do. He cast a restoration spell, and the elven woman’s aura became more noticeable than when he first felt it. He poured healing magic through her body, and the bruises and gashes she had were eased or disappeared. He’d then placed wards on her arm to keep his orb’s magic from spreading further into her body. But there was only so much he could do.

Her pulse no longer beat madly. Her breaths continued shallow, but they were steady. Though her pain had been greatly reduced, the woman in front of him still wouldn’t wake up. Eyelids still covered the wild dance of her eyes. No one knew what the effects of being physically in the Fade were. Solas prayed silently that a deep coma wouldn’t be one of them. If this elf didn’t regain consciousness and used his power to seal the tears soon, the mark would consume her and her death would in turn destroy the mark.

Leliana was right.

He  _must_ keep her alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that drew me to Solas was how similar he was to me. We both love knowledge and learning and can be a bit know-it-alls, introverted but don't mind socializing, kind of radical-minded and cynical but also optimistic (though he denies it, the simple fact that he tries time and again to change the world means he believes in a better future), pragmatic and logical but with an underlying emotional investment, we even share a disgust for tea! All that's left is for me to have a dark, horrible past and wallow in angst.
> 
> Some of the blanks we don't know about his personality I based on my own: having dark, awful thoughts you'd never act on because you know they're wrong, but the fact that they come to your mind brings you so much shame because you know you're a better person than that (or want to be a better person than that). What's so hard about it is that it's so ingrained into your thought process due to upbringing, education or simply picking up from your surroundings that it’s difficult to shake off. I mean, he’s an elvhen god, his brain has been marinating in privilege for ages, he’s aware of it sometimes but it's hard to constantly police oneself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some depictions of violence.

The next couple of days were agony. The elven survivor still hadn’t awakened and the Breach continued to grow.

Solas persisted in his efforts to close the smaller rift nearby Haven, trying a variety of techniques proved to seal Veil tears, not expecting them to work. The magic at work here was beyond anything ever seen in ages, and his current power couldn’t match it.

At night he slipped across the Veil to dream, trying to find Wisdom, but the Breach had driven the spirit off in an attempt to flee from its effects. Little remained in the area of the Fade where he could dream but wisps with nothing to offer in help. The more powerful spirits had escaped from that section, or been drawn to the physical world.

He was frustrated. His only remaining theory lay locked in a cell unable to even stand up. His failures, combined with the lack of guidance, made Solas anxious, which in turn made Cassandra alight with suspicion. If the prisoner didn’t wake up soon, or if she did but fail – or worse, died – he would have no other choice but to flee, and find another way to recover his magic and his orb, though the prospects didn’t look promising. For now, only Leliana stood between him and the blade of the Seeker.

When he wasn’t driving the demons that spewed from the rifts away, fighting with the help of Chantry forces and the dwarf he had seen in the tavern, Varric, Solas kept checking on the elven survivor.

One night he attempted to peer into her dreams. He entered the Fade and changed into his wolf form – the swiftest way to traverse the Beyond – and searched for her. The Wolf caught her scent easily, for the mark called to him as if it were a beacon in the dark. The ancient magic pulled him to his mark, like a tether anchoring them to each other. As he waded the dream-land, Solas relished in his transformation back to Fen’Harel: in the Fade he was his truest self, his power only limited by his imagination. It reminded of his time in ancient Elvhenan, where everything was easier for him. Dreaming took him back home.

However, when he reached his destination all he could feel was the oppressive sense of dread that permeated her dream-space. Darkness dominated his surroundings and the air was dank and foggy. The tingling in the back of his head made him aware of a powerful entity looming somewhere in the dream, observing, feasting in hiding.

As he stepped further into the nightmare, what stood out was the scenery that he found himself in: the Fade within the Fade. Various small demons in spider form pursued the elf as she climbed an impossibly steep scarp, her breath ragged and panting.  _The escape from the Fade._  The scene repeated itself over and over, but each succession a fragment of the memory was lost.

He fully entered her dream. The Dread Wolf stood at the base of the scarp, watching as the elf reached for the top where some kind of benign being glowed bright yellow, stretching out a hand in help. The fearlings crawled up, gaining on her as she struggled for purchase. The woman glanced behind, and her amber eyes met his. He saw as they widened further in horror and a yelp escaped her lips. For a time he stood still, still drinking the image of her open eyes, almost failing to register as she slipped, slid down the rock and fell into the spiders’ grasp. Her cries for help broke him from his stupor.

Fen’Harel leaped forward, baring his fangs and sinking them into a demon's carapace. Black ichor sprayed in his face, the sticky fluid stained his grey mane and felt unnatural on his muzzle, hissing as it evaporated. The elf fought, thrashing her legs to shake off three fearlings that threatened to overwhelm her. She stretched out an arm to spray fire to the nearest, burning it to a crisp. The Wolf continued onward in his assault, swatting his claws at the spiders in full force, shredding hairy legs apart and opening gashes through dark glassy eyes. His frenzy tore open his path towards the elf as demon hisses and bursting flames punctuated the series of manic attacks.

As he got near her, Fen’Harel deftly avoided the blasts of fire conjured by the mage. Her magic wasn’t very powerful, not nearly as powerful as she could make it in the Fade, and lacked focus in her panic, especially without a staff. He bit down another spider and snarled when it squirmed on its back as it died. Dodging another burst of flames, the Wolf leaped at another fearling, crunching it under his weight, delighting at the ichor that spread down the rock. He saw the elven mage burn the last demon, its carcass but a black husk. Her hair clung to her face, sweat and grime stained her features, and blood streaked down her chin and jaw from the gash on her upper lip.

His fur rose as he felt the flow of mana pooling in her hands to form amorphous swirls of fire, building up an inferno in an effort to smite down the Dread Wolf.

The mage’s arms rose slightly and it was all the stimulus he needed. The Wolf pounced on the small elf, knocking her down. With his front legs, he pinned her arms and snuffed out the flames. Fen’Harel suppressed her mana and her aura went faint, making her gasp at the intrusion. She writhed beneath him, trying to free herself from his claws, but his hold on her was too strong. When the Dalish elf realized she couldn’t escape the Dread Wolf, her eyes shot wide with terror. To the wandering elves, he was the Bringer of Nightmares, the god who whispered lies in Keepers’ dreams to lead them astray and strike down those who would not betray their own.

“Fen’Harel...”

He felt her breathe below, quick, shallow pants that matched her pulse. He lowered his head to meet her gaze and bared his teeth in a snarl. Red eyes met amber one last time and a low rumble surged from deep within his belly. The Wolf let out a growl,  _“Wake up,”_  and banished her from her dream.

With her gone, the memory had no mind to hold on to, and the dreamscape vanished as Fen’Harel changed back to his elven form.

Solas regretted right away his bad timing after falling and hitting with his side on the rocky ground of the Fade with a loud thud.

Rubbing his bruised skin, he looked around to get his bearings. Though the Fade is constantly changing, certain domains of powerful spirits remain quite constant. This was one of those domains, he could feel it, but didn’t recognize it.  _Fascinating._

He wandered around for a while. The oppressive sense of dread still hadn’t faded. Solas wondered what kind of spirit – or demon – controlled this place. At a guess?  _Despair._

His body tensed as he felt the air being sucked from his lungs, but he tried to center himself as the panic started setting in. A loud, booming voice rang all around, speaking to him in a most familiar language.

“Ah… Welcome, Fen’Harel. I was wondering when I would finally meet you,” the voice said, speaking in ancient elven. The juxtaposition of the sweet rhythm of the old tongue and the sinister tone employed sent shivers down his spine.

“I admit,” it continued, “I was rather disappointed to find you’d only come to take my prey from me, she and I were having such a wonderful time.”

“I doubt she felt the same.” Solas looked for the voice's origin but couldn’t find it. Its domain twisted and turned in a labyrinthine path and the heavy air drained his focus.

It laughed. “For a moment I thought you were going to give me more to feed, isn’t it right,  _Dread Wolf?”_  The Fade shook and grew cold.  _No, not despair. Fear._  “Alas, you didn’t provide me with enough time to latch on the memory.”

“And let you prey further in her dreams? You are a parasite. You feed on the innocent and the weak.”

The demon tsked, “Is that concern I detect? Has the Dread Wolf lost his  _Wisdom_?” It laughed. “Such a shame the Dalish will remember your rescue quite differently than you. That seems to happen often, doesn’t it? Maybe she’ll come back and I can help you both.”

“It would be better for her if she never knew your “help” again.”

“But not for your  _Pride_. Funny, isn’t it? She never would’ve needed me if it weren’t for you.” It chuckled. “So I guess I must thank you, Fen’Harel, you have given me much to feast on these past ages.”

Solas stood silent. It was best to ignore the demon.

“And I believe I’ll have much more to feed in the ages to come,” the demon continued, and paused, awaiting an answer. When none was forthcoming it started, “What's this? Is the mighty Fen’Harel powerless to respond?" The eerie laughter rang again. "I’ll forgive you, then, for this intrusion, and allow you to leave. I wouldn’t want for you to be locked in here forever, with no way to escape. Such a horrible fate.”

The elf clenched his jaw, and nails bit down hard on his palms.

“Go. Go back to your world,  _Solas,_ to your lie. Go watch as one of the People and a magister both fumble with your key, and lose it. Go make up to your betrayal with another.” Solas swallowed hard, chest constricting in anger and dread. “Safe journey, Fen’Harel, I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”

Solas woke up in his bed with a jolt. A sheen of sweat cooled on his forehead and his sheets had been thrashed away. He looked up to the window of his hut. It wasn’t yet morning.

He let himself fall back, crashing into the excessively soft mattress. His eyes were shut, but there was no way he could fall asleep with his mind racing the way it was.

The demon hadn’t said nothing he didn’t know himself, but to hear it aloud? It made him shudder more than he liked to admit. He was angry, angry at himself for letting it affect him, and angry at the demon for poking at his fears as if everything was inevitable. Nothing it said was inevitable, nothing it said was final and unchanging.

He thought on its parting words,  _“I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”_  If it turned out to be true, Solas was looking very forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The codex entries](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Patient_Observations) by Adan about the Inquiz you can find in Haven mention them mumbling in their unconsciousness about "the grey" and "too many eyes" and some people theorized that it was Fen'Harel (I think that's the Solas obsession talking and that the Inquiz is talking about the Grey Wardens and the spiders/the Nightmare), but I was wondering, if the Nightmare was feeding on all the fear of the Inquiz, why not take the whole memory?
> 
> Solas mentions during the time that the Inquiz was in a coma that he dreamed and sought spirits, so what if he entered Lavellan's dream and broke her free from the Nightmare's grasp? That would explain how she calmed down in her sleep and why she kept some of the memory intact.
> 
> So, headcanon developed that can support both theories!


	5. Chapter 5

The prisoner’s vital signs began normalizing after Solas released her from the Nightmare’s grasp. Adan, who monitored her when he couldn’t, expected her to wake up before the next day broke. The only scares the apostate had did not come from her, but from the few attempts on her life by Chantry fanatics.

With nothing to do but wait for the survivor to wake – and pray the guards in the cells could keep her safe – Solas joined forces with a few soldiers, Cassandra and Varric to secure the perimeter around Haven. It was tiring work, requiring one always stay alert for a new wave of demons, but it was a way to endear himself to the Seeker and Leliana should things not go according to plan. If he knew fate well, things would not go according to plan.

Their party alternated between watching one of the closer rifts and hunting down straggler demons that fell from the Breach.

During down time Solas traded quips with the dwarf, overheard murmurs about an ‘Inquisition’, and helped heal soldiers wounded in the fights. It was this way that he finally began gaining the trust of Cassandra. She had sustained a large gash on her cheek after being overwhelmed by a group of shades. Varric and the soldiers were distracted by four other shades and a wraith, and only the mage had heard her cry for help. He could’ve let her die, but if he helped her, the trust that the pending organization would place on him could be considerable, enough to dissuade anyone from poking at his past, drive him away from the mark, or attempt to kill him. Perhaps he could even use it to further his goals. So he lend her his assistance, killed the shades before more damage could be done, and stopped the bleeding of her laceration.

“Thank you, Solas,” Cassandra said, in a much softer tone than she’d ever used in their previous conversations.

“There is no reason to thank me, Seeker. I am merely doing my duty.”

“Even so, if it weren’t for you, I might not be alive anymore.” She gave a fleeting smile, before returning to her usual sharp expression. “I’ve misjudged you.”

“The day is still young,” Solas joked, earning a chuckle from Varric and an eyeroll from the warrior.

“Don’t tempt me, Solas. We still have your theory to test,” she said, but there wasn’t an edge to her voice any longer.

“You’re a weird one, Chuckles. Most people would kill to get on the Seeker’s good side,” said Varric, settling beside him. Cassandra crossed her arms, scrunching her nose.

“By ‘most people’, do you mean yourself, Master Tethras?”

The rogue laughed, patting his back, “Ha! Got me.” The Seeker stifled a chuckle and turned back to the valley. “You’re a sly one, aren’t you, Chuckles? You act all calm and collected, but that’s a lie, there’s a whole different person underneath all that seriousness. You should let him out more.”

“I’m afraid that if I did so, you’d be disappointed.” Varric shot him a quizzical look, but when Solas didn’t say anything more, he moved on and followed Cassandra.

The dwarf was one of those people Solas could never bring himself to hate, despite how annoying he could sometimes get. The stories he told were entertaining and wildly exaggerated, but such is the nature of good stories. The truth was never as interesting or comforting as people want it to be. Still, Solas made a mental note to read Varric’s hit novel. For research, of course.

The rest of the day remained a repetition of it, and the days before it.

When night came, Solas was exhausted. After having quick a meal and saying his goodbyes to Varric, he hurried back to his hut for a good night’s sleep. He wouldn’t dream tonight, not with how tired he felt and the measly four hours he was given to recover his energies. He had to be up and ready before sunrise for another day of fighting the demons that fell from the Breach.

Darkness fell all around as Solas entered a deep slumber, ushered by the weariness and the slow, deep and practiced breaths. Time blurred without dreams.

He clenched his eyes at the sound of pounding at the door, his head rang and threatened to split itself apart.The blackness of sleep wasn’t enough to sate him, but nothing these days gave him any reprieve. He rubbed his fingers through his eyes when Varric came in with a mug and a wrapped bundle. The cold air coming through the opened door bit his skin even through the woolen covers.

“Rise and shine, Chuckles. We’re due at the watchtower.”

Solas groaned. The dwarf was not the person he wanted to see first thing in the morning. “Varric, how did you manage to wake this early?”

“Ha! That’s easy, I never slept. Come on, I’ve had five cups of coffee in the last hour and I need to shoot some shit.” Varric set the steaming mug and the little bundle on the endtable. “Here, take this. Coffee’ll do good for you. Eat the bread on the way.”

The strong smell of the beverage woke him up. Solas scrunched his nose. He got out of bed and took his woolen vest off the hanger. Curling his fingers on the handle, he took a sip of the coffee, feeling the bitterness course through his mouth and down his throat. Oh, how he hated coffee.

“No honey?”

“No! What are you? A child?”

With an eyeroll, Solas drank the rest of the dark liquid. Although he harbored a distaste for it, he welcomed how the coffee warmed his body, the pleasant feeling running down to his stomach then spreading out to his limbs. It was what he needed in a cold morning such as this.

He fastened his vest and sat on his bed to start working on his foot wrappings, Varric was shifting his weight on his feet as he waited. Solas stroked his tongue through the roof of his mouth, noticing how it gone numb and rough. The coffee had been too hot. Then he remembered no one was to bring him coffee.

“Varric, were you not supposed to return to Kirkwall last night?”

“Huh… Guess it slipped my mind,” the rogue said, shrugging his shoulders but barely concealing his smirk. It was a lie.

“Does Seeker Cassandra know you’re still here? For someone who no longer wishes to incur in her wrath you seem quite intent in angering her.”

“She doesn’t need to know… yet. Besides, she’s staying behind with Nightingale because of the elf, so I thought I'd help you guys out.”

The haziness was finally cleared from his mind and his eyes. The survivor was expected to wake this morning and be taken immediately to a rift. Solas had to be there, he had to make sure she could succeed in sealing the tear in the Veil. Everything hinged on it.

The elf jumped out of the bed and grabbed his staff and the neatly wrapped bundle of bread.

“Let’s go, then,” Solas said, darting off the cottage and thumping Varric on the leg with the blunt end of his staff. Varric stood stunned. The warmth in Solas's belly was replaced by a mix of excitement and anxiety. It had been ages since he’d felt his focus’ magic in action, he wondered if it would feel the same. He took a piece of bread into his mouth as he crossed through the streets of Haven with the dwarf.

Three days of fighting the demons from the watchtower rift meant they were intimately familiar with the path they took: beyond the gate, up the hill then cross the bridge, through the winding stoned path with the pines to the left and the lake with the stairs to the right, until they saw the collapsed tower and the bridge to the forward camp. There it was, wobbling, twisting, contorting itself as it tinged the stone with its sage-green light. Leaning exhausted on the broken walls were three soldiers, covered in soot and blood. On the ground lay a few others – Fereldan and Orlesian entourages, templars, and Chantry forces – all dead.

It’d been a trying night, but for the moment it was calm.

Solas circled around the opened rift. It sparked once and calmed but he could still feel the surge of mana coming to him. The elf loved casting where the Veil was weak for it was easier to draw forth mana and call on more and stronger magic, almost as if in the Fade. Though the Breach threatened the world, it did have a pleasing side-benefit.

He saw the sun rising in the east, painting the clouds in its dull orange as the last dark of night dissipated into grey. As he moved he saw the rays through the tear, the light distorted and then refracted by the Veil, changing direction and color as it passed and illuminated the ground. The landscape was awash in steady, plain sunlight but the stones near the rift danced in waves of green and white glow that both mesmerized and discomfited. It was beautiful.

The Breach discharged its energy in the distance and the rift sparked again. The demons would come soon.

“That’s not a good sign,” Varric said, interrupting his quiet contemplation. As Leliana came into view, Solas was then not quite sure what the dwarf was mentioning.

“Solas!” The bard shouted as she and a scout ran towards the watchtower. “Varric?”

“A little surprise for the Seeker.” She giggled shortly in understanding.

“Has something gone wrong, Sister Leliana?” Solas asked. She’d eschewed fighting the demons from the rifts to tend full time to scouts, spies and watching the Dalish survivor. Her appearance here was unexpected, and Solas feared the worst.

“I’m on my way to meet with Cullen in the forward camp. Solas, the prisoner— she’s awake.”

“It seems like no one’s sleeping in today, eh, Chuckles?”

Solas stifled a long, relieved sigh, lest he betray the weight that’d been lifted off his shoulder. The only thing left was to lift the other one.

“Cassandra is taking her here now. I—” A blast coming from the Breach interrupted Leliana. All of them ducked as the green mass rained down on the land. She took her bow in her left hand and three arrows from her quiver and nocked them, ready for a fight. “I have to go. Good luck.”

Elf and dwarf watched as she crossed the bridge to the forward camp. Just when the bard and scout reached the other side, a blast tore away the bricked stone, destroying the bridge.

The rift began expanding and contracting, announcing the imminent battle. Solas gripped his staff tightly as Varric loaded his crossbow and the remaining soldiers drew their blades. Green tendrils slinked through the ground forming bulbs of energy that pulsed in rhythm with the tear. The energy burst, exploding, and finally released a massive wave of demons.

“Ugh. Why is it always demons?” The dwarf muttered under his breath and Solas couldn’t help but to agree with the sentiment.

A shade fell as a bolt hit its head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Thedas have coffee, or just tea? Do people even drink tea in the morning as coffee?
> 
> I don't know, I hate tea...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the line. This was fun :)

As the Breach grew in size and strength so did the smaller rifts that peppered Thedas. Each day they got bigger more demons came at a time, and at this rhythm, battling the rifts would become unsustainable.

Solas noticed a soldier die on the corner of his eye. Ice blasted from his fingertips to freeze the shade next to a Fereldan swordsman.

No matter the experience these men had had in the Blight, in the civil wars, or in the current conflict between templars and mages, few could ever have claimed to have fought against demons and lived. Contrary to the wild tales of Varric Tethras and the horror stories told by the templars, the crossing of the Fade denizens through the Veil was not a common occurrence. Until now.

A shade slashed another soldier through his leg. Before having a chance to kill him, Varric shot the demon dead.

So it was not to his surprise to find the rag tag assortment of fighters lending their assistance with the Breach struggle, and die. To Solas’s disappointment, the few mages that had survived the explosion had either fled or kept themselves away for fear of possession. It was folly, of course, stemming from Chantry preconception that mages were too weak to withstand against demons. Few in Thedas were as prepared to fight them as mages.

Solas spotted a wraith coming from the right and casted a barrier over the rogue and himself, shielding them from a blast of the spirit. A well aimed lightning bolt disintegrated it into the rift.

He and Varric were one of the few that had any  actual experience in dealing with demons. The dwarf had surprised him on that front. Solas had thought his _Tale of the Champion_ to be mere exaggerations, little lies meant to enrapture his audience. It seemed not all was blown out of proportion.

A loud thud made him turn around. At his feet fell the last shade, squirming with a bolt lodged in its head before being sucked back into the Fade.

Becoming battle companions for these past three days had settled them both into a comfortable synergy. Solas would’ve found himself enjoying this newfound companionship if not for the dire way in which it had formed. It was strange, different; he was accustomed to being a lone wolf, hunting alone for his goals. This new situation would... complicate matters.

Not enough respite had been given from the previous wave when another came through. The burst caught a soldier by surprise and a demon cut him down. By now only two more – one of them wounded – were assisting them. They would need backup soon.

Elf and dwarf eyed each other and nodded in understanding. Solas reinforced Varric with a barrier and moved cautiously from behind to the opposite side. Outnumbered, their battle strategy had to shift. While the warriors kept the shades occupied in the middle, they rained magic and bolts, catching the demons in a crossfire. Solas drew on his mana, feeding on the excess granted by the nearby tear, and pooled it in his hand. The enchantment in his staff thrummed as the magic spiraled within, the amorphous energy that chilled the grip and the surrounding air gaining momentum as it neared its head. Focused blasts of ice surged through, each following in quick succession. Right, one. Left, two. Right, three. Turn, four. Back, five. Slam, six. Time seemed to stretch in between heartbeats, blood pumping fast and adrenaline guiding the movements.

Five shades turned to four, but in turn the wounded soldier was struck down as he faltered with blood loss, turning their party to three. Solas froze a shade in its tracks and a bolt shattered and blurred through it with a whoosh.

However talented the remaining swordsman was, mage and rogue were the biggest threats. The demons spread wide, one focusing in each of them. When left unawares, Solas was a danger, killing enemies with speed and ease, and were he in his peak they would fall with a snap of his fingers. But he was not, and as the shade got closer to him, the elf began to struggle, and not even the augmented mana from the rift could help him when it was all but depleted. On the other side he spotted Varric, retreating from the vicious attacks until he hit the wall. The soldier in the center braved on, but with the gash he had on his arm, he was nearly done. If help didn’t arrive by now, they’d be finished.

Then he saw the rift flash and felt a familiar tingle on the back of his head.

As if providence, a huge burst of fire blasted through him, nearly singeing his clothes, and burning to ash the shade that hounded him. Solas turned to the origin of the flames. There she stood. Amber eyes and tousled dark hair, with Falon’Din gracing her forehead and cheeks. The Dalish woman no longer looked like the frightened little girl trapped in a nightmare. Her hand flared green, and he saw the mark for a second before fire swirled once again and struck the demon opposite him.

Solas heard Cassandra charging through with a shout, bashing into the shade ahead of her with a crunching sound. She spat as blood spattered across her face, but Solas never took his eyes off the other elf.

He watched her intently as she moved and tried to steel her features into a focused expression, hiding the daze and confusion. The mark pulled at him and Solas stalked towards her. She summoned fire one last time, incinerating the shade nearest Varric. His heart raced and the mark flared at his proximity, he could feel the magic in his core. She turned to him and he held her gaze. Like in the Fade, their eyes bored into each other with fierce intensity. Then his hand snapped over her wrist like a magnet, grabbing so tightly it made the Dalish woman gasp.

Curled under his fingers, the magic sizzled and it filled him with pleasurable nostalgia. With a gentle nudge of his mana, he coaxed it forward. Then, keeping his blue eyes on hers, Solas willed himself to speak.

“Quickly, before more come through!”

He yanked her arm hard towards the rift, and the magic flowed of its own will to connect with the Veil. As the energy coursed through her arm, Solas felt a wave of pleasure wash through him, and it took all he had not to moan at the relief that threatened to overwhelm him. For a moment he was once again in Arlathan. For a moment he held all the power in the world. For a moment he was Fen’Harel. This. _This_ is what he was meant to be.

Then the air popped, and the connection was severed by the backlash of the bursting rift.

He was Solas again.

“What did you do?” The Dalish elf panted. She rubbed her wrist where his fingers once grasped her.

_“I_ did nothing. The credit is yours,” he said. Not entirely untrue, depending on how far back one was willing to consider.

“You mean this,” she said, lifting her hand and examining the green scar that marked her palm. It flared again and she winced.

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” Solas explained for the fourth time, each time to a different person. Perhaps he should tattoo that on his face like the Dalish did. He shook the thought. _Stupid._ He understood what he was saying. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that had opened in the Breach’s wake,” he continued, and smugly added, “and it seems I was correct.” For once in the last years he spent trying to unlock his orb, something was going according to plan.

Cassandra, who was tending to the soldier still standing, wiped the blood off her face as she joined them. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” she said, hopeful. Nothing but grief and anger came from the Seeker in the three days since the explosion that wracked the Conclave. Bad news piled upon bad news and then on her shoulders, so at this small success she became as relieved as Solas. But he wasn’t so sure about her assumption. The mark was but a tiny piece of the magic, and the Breach must’ve been created by the full power of the orb.

“Possibly,” he conceded, if only to grant them all a bit of peace of mind.

The mark flashed imperceptibly, but it was enough to draw Solas back to it. He resisted the urge to touch it again, entwining his fingers and keeping back.

He looked back up to her in attempt to hide his fascination. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he said, more to her and himself than anyone else. Never in his life had he said something with so much meaning.

 

* * * * *

 

Solas watched as the Dalish woman of clan Lavellan stood on the dais in front of the Chantry with her human companions. The town of Haven had gathered to see the announcement of the Inquisition, the mighty force that would deliver them from the chaos and restore peace to the lands affected by the Breach. It was worthy of laughter. Just a few days prior the _shemlen_ hated her, spat on her and tried having her killed. Now they bowed to her, a woman who did not wish praise, and called her ‘The Herald of Andraste’, an elf who rejected their human ways and preferred to live out imagined fairy tales of ancient Elvhenan. Her hair swayed with the wind.

It was faint now, the mark. The magic no longer hummed and tasted of home. When Lavellan was knocked unconscious again after attempting to close the Breach, he stayed in her hut to make sure she lived. Solas caressed her hand then, seeking out the magic, but it no longer reacted to his touch. It was a part of her now.

His heart felt empty, robbed. First the orb, and now the mark. His goal never felt as far away as it did this moment. He had miscalculated. He knew that now. Solas had only two choices: to stay or to leave. If he stayed, he must help the Inquisition and hope that the quest to seal the Breach would lead to Corypheus who would then lead to his orb. If he left, he must abandon all plans to use his key and find another source of power. He gave himself two choices, but he knew there was only a real one.

They stood there, slave and god, in a world where they were neither. He knew what he was, but what about her? If she wasn’t his way out anymore, then what was she? Solas knew the answer but he dared not utter it. It would make her real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the super cryptic, super unsatisfying ending. I could've stretched this forever but I only have so much time...
> 
> I do, however, intend to write more, especially if anyone has any suggestions. Writing this fic has rekindled my love of writing, and perhaps I just might return to an original story that has been left collecting dust on my hard drive.
> 
> You've all been so great, thank you so much for reading!


End file.
